A Nymph's Journal - Page 01

My name is Victoria Helena, I'm 32 years old (that means, by the time I'm publishing this), and I am a nymphomaniac. If you are reading this, you're probably familiar with this term by this point. If you read a little further about it, you will probably find out that doctors don't use "nymphomania" as a technical term for an addiction to sex anymore. However, I find it more suitable than "hipersexuality disorder". It's not only a disorder for me. My constant, unceasing, even aggressive sexual behavior has become a part of my life.

I have been keeping a secret journal since one of my first therapists recommended me to do so. This journal now sums exactly thirteen standard size (96 pages) notebooks. Putting this journal online, in a certain manner, satisfies my exhibitionist urges. So that's what this is supposed to be. I'm going to publish interesting pieces of writing spat over more than 14 years. Any information, other than my name, that could show who I am, or where I have lived will be edited out, and, of course, the texts will be curated. But I'll do my best to not rip out the flavor of the moment when the texts were written.

As this is my first time here, I find it logical to start with the first page of my first journal, which is no more than a simple presentation of myself.

"I'm writing this right now hoping for a cathartic escapism. I have been having this urge since I understood the purpose of that faint-pink slit in between my legs. The urge is not constant, it's true, but it surely happens more than a few times every day. Something like an itch, but not of the unpleasing kind.

It's a warm, pulsing itch, starting on the back of my neck and making its way through every last bone of my spine. Then, it stops by my cervix and starts irradiating from there. The itch starts coming on waves that go down my thighs and up to the middle of my stomach, and by that point, I start to lose the ability to focus on anything that isn't that itch, or, more precisely, how to scratch it.

Several things can act as triggers. A few days ago, Ma... brought one of those vibrating balls she have been using on her physical therapy sessions to class. The kind that you spin around and it gets heavier and heavier the more you move. She let me play with it for no more than twenty seconds, and it was enough to make my whole back tingle.

Suddenly I felt the urge of having that ball covered in that scentless baby oil I stole from the bathroom, pressing against my groin; my mind drifted away to the thought of a constantly growing weight on my outer labia; my clitoris pulsating under its hood. And after a good tease, long enough to make my mouth agape and my vision blurred in eagerness, I'd finally push one, then two fingers inside my vulva and move them frantically inside me, rubbing that ball against my twitching clitoris.

The only thing that stopped it was when I heard the professor's voice, already starting the lecture of that day. Ma... asked me what I was thinking about, since my eyes were "kind of glassy", according to her. I told her I was just daydreaming, which isn't really a lie.

Now this was a pretty obvious association, but everything, from the slow pace of a clock to a big bowl of guacamole can trigger this itch. I have been to therapy for a while now, because this was starting to get in the way of my social life. (Fl..., the therapist, actually recommended me to write this as a venting way. Little does she know that as soon as I sit down on that couch, with her eyes gazing at me with an interest, and her ears ready to listen to any and everything I feel like saying, my underwear becomes a moist mess. Sometimes I go straight home and get off only to the thought of being alone in a room with another person, and Fl.. isn't even the most attractive woman.)

I don't have a lot of sex, although I have had my fair share. I feel like I'm too selfish in bed, but I'm the person that is most able to please my body, and give it exactly what it needs. I masturbate at least once every night. Sometimes I feel a strong urge while I'm doing something at home - eating a ripe apple for breakfast, or brushing my hair with those slippery hydrating creams. It's not a problem - I've learned to be always early for everything. Sometimes, though, I'm in the middle of the street - which is not a problem if I'm heading home, but it can become a pain if I'm going to my work, or to class.

More than once I have climaxed inside the store's bathroom, one foot up the sink and four fingers up my fanny; the sole thing that triggered my arousal was the thought that if I did it then and there I had to be silent, or someone could hear me pant or moan and I'd lose my job.

This is starting to get too long for a first page. The important information is already up there: I'm Victoria Helena, I have an incontrollable urge of pleasuring myself to orgasm, and I'm convinced that my only option is to learn how to cope with it, since I'm almost sure it won't go away."